


Métamorphosé

by BelfastDocks



Category: The Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy
Genre: Bedroom Sex, Books, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Lord Tony's Wife, Romance, Sex, Spoilers, Story Continuation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 14:51:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16020188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelfastDocks/pseuds/BelfastDocks
Summary: A collection of snippets taking place before and during "Lord Tony's Wife", mostly from Yvonne's POV.Lord Tony/YvonneSPOILERS for "Lord Tony's Wife", one of the sequels to "The Scarlet Pimpernel".





	Métamorphosé

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Lord Tony's Wife. These are snippets (mostly from Yvonne's point of view, but a few from Tony's) that take place throughout the course of the novel, so they won't make any sense unless you've read the book (which I highly recommend to any Pimpernel fan - one of the best in the series!). Some snippets deal with sexual content.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Métamorphosé

****

**I. The Birth of Fear**

It was dreadfully difficult to overcome strong emotions.

Such as fear.

Oui. _Crainte_ was exceptionally difficult to move beyond.

After all, ever since Yvonne de Kernogan had been but a girl on the threshold of womanhood, an inexplicable _fear_ had consumed her.

A fear regarding the opposite sex.

It had been Pierre Adet's fault, and she knew it as well as she knew that God was holy. She had only been twelve years of age, unaware of the budding changes occurring within her. She had been innocent, untainted, petted, and adored. And within seconds, a miserable, filthy peasant had changed _all_ of that. For he had seen in her what she had not yet seen in herself, and he had used it to his advantage and her disadvantage, defiling her in a way that she had never dreamed of hitherto.

And for four long years, Yvonne had harbored this black secret in the depths of her soul, struggling as she might to step outside of the diamond-hard shell she had built about her heart to protect anything innocent within it that remained…if such wholesome things even existed inside of her anymore.

Occasionally she would attempt to peek from beneath the blackness, but she would always panic at her feeble attempts to do so, for the truth of the matter was simple: Adet had stolen something precious from her, ruined her ideals, and in the end she tearfully felt that he had indeed won after all.

Of course he had _won_ ; he had created this _fear_.

 

**II. Wading Through Darkness**

She did not tell her father of the times she woke at night, drenched in cold, unpleasant sweat that made her silken nightshift cling to her pale skin. She spared him the revolting nightmares that plagued her in the early hours of morning. Of how a grimy peasant had pressed hot, moist lips to hers, stripping away a young girl's dream of receiving her first kiss from a handsome, young man whom she could hope to fall in love with.

Adet's mouth had been hungry and seeking that dreadful, fateful night, though she had tasted the obvious hatred and disgust, too. By sheer instinct she had shrunk away in terror, mercifully slipping into unconsciousness. But even as she slipped in his arms and sagged against the plush cushions of the carriage, she'd vaguely heard him chuckle beneath his breath, and he had then followed through with the rest of his threat, pressing those greedy lips to her dainty, slender throat where it met her chin, nipping his teeth there, positively terrifying her.

But, oh, he wasn't satisfied with simply _that_! He had then kissed each of her cheeks, just as he'd so evilly promised; the rough stubble of his chin scratchy and foul, while his hand brushed lightly beneath her young, tender breasts and then over the tops. He had traced the fine, expensive lace of her bodice and the porcelain skin just above it, entertained by the light, barely-noticeable swells that were just starting to peep above her gowns.

It did not matter that she had returned home alive and with her virtue still in tact; the truth was that Adet had accomplished his true purpose – she would _never_ forget those wretched kisses and touches, the stolen moments she should have had with the dashing knight in all of her fairytale daydreams.

Instead, she now had _fear_.

Fear that _this_ was what any man would be like. Fear that any man's lips would be hot and wet and feral, demanding from her what she now did not desire to give to just anyone. Fear that love was impossible, for how could love exist if men kissed so vilely?

 

**III. Lavender Soap**

Oh, how she had tried desperately to wash those caresses away.

But he had promised that she would never be able to, and he had been right about that, too. How she loathed him, hated him with every fiber of her being. She wouldn't mind the hate so much, if she could just move beyond the _fear_. But the two went hand in hand, blackening her heart until she locked herself in her room at nights and cried violently with the sheer pain of the knowledge that something important had been stripped away from her, by someone so hideous and awful.

She would scrub her delicate, pale skin until it was pink and raw, and yet still have the dismal nightmares of Adet leering at her, doing more than just kissing her pretty skin. As she grew older, she dreamed of him ripping her fine, satin gowns from her body, forcing himself upon her. She would wake, arching against the dampness of her nightdress, horrified at how frightening her dreams were, and how she was reacting to them.

How could she give herself to any man, if physical affection was so disheartening and terrifying? Or did she _want_ it to be brutal?

No. She couldn't possibly want _that_. But she couldn't possibly see herself marrying, and even if she did, she would always have this _fear_. How did one move beyond such an overpowering emotion? How could she give herself freely to her husband without always hating the physical actions?

The haunted look remained her in her eyes, and as the months passed, her father came to accept it as merely her aristocratic upbringing – a regal aloofness that defined so many women of their caste – instead of fear.

 

**IV. Across the Universe**

In the year of grace 1793, her old fear followed her out of France and across the channel to England, where a now sixteen-year-old Yvonne found herself thrust into high society, surrounded by wealthy, young, attractive men.

Men very different from the peasant Adet. Men who had everything, who laughed gaily and flirted with pretty girls, but who were chivalrous to a fault and personified the very idea of knights on white horses. English aristocrats were nothing like French ones.

But despite their handsome looks and lovely manners, they merely had to smile in Yvonne's direction and she would instantly become subdued and silent, often retreating to an unoccupied corner to dwell on her terrible secret and avoid society.

Sometimes she would vainly try to imagine kissing one of these men, hoping it might be different than her first experience, desperate as she was to escape the memories. But then, Pierre Adet's evil face always floated to the surface of her mind.

Taunting her.

Chiding her.

Wickedly informing her that any kiss would be the same as his, no matter whom the man: rough and wet and hot and commanding.

Her attempts at bravery were squashed unromantically beneath the heel of the peasant's rough gait through her daydreams, and she hated _that_ as much as anything else – she was from a noble lineage, and cowardice was unacceptable! She, the daughter of the Duc de Kernogan!

But even forcing herself to speak to these pleasant, kind Englishmen was a difficult task… and it her life became even worse when her father believed he had found the perfect suitor for her hand.

Monsieur Martin-Roget.

 

**V. A Pawn in the Hands of Men**

Yvonne had decided, on her second meeting with him, that she would not have much cared for Martin-Roget even _without_ her dwelling fear, for there was something about him she could not place, but that she greatly disliked.

Oh yes, he was attentive; some would even consider him attractive. At social events, he held her hand and guided her about the rooms or gardens, often alongside her father. Her father, who thought him perfect and rich and ideal for a cherished daughter.

But despite his attentions, Martin-Roget's smiles were strangely cold, and Yvonne was left with a disturbed, hollow feeling that settled unpleasantly in her stomach. His hands were almost claw-like, a hard vice that she knew it was fruitless to struggle against if he had hold of her, and his eyes had no warmth whatsoever.

She assumed her feelings were simply the resurfacing of her old fears. She had been right; she would never move beyond the _fear_ of a man's touch, and when she married _this_ man she would have a wedding night in which she would obey her husband's every word, for that was the way of things, whether she liked it or not.

Pleasure had eluded her forever, she felt.

And still, for her father's sake, Yvonne did her best to pretend that she was happy. To pretend that there were no nightmares or lingering memories of that fateful night near her childhood home. That she understood the importance of such a wealthy match. She knew she was a pawn, a tool in the hands of men. So her looks of placid compliance were the mask that hid the haunted fear her father had so worried over when she had been twelve years of age. At sixteen, she was a woman and she knew her place in the world, and she would bear the deprivation of love and her Fate with all the bearing of the aristocrat she was.

She sadly accepted it as her Destiny.

 

**VI. Snatched**

She had completely given up hope, when it happened.

It was at one of the flashy London soirees only a couple of short months since she had arrived in England. The glittering elite were milling about in their rich silks and satins and fine Mechlin lace, chattering and laughing over jokes and the forthcoming dances and what their hostess had selected for the dessert that evening.

And in the midst of the gaiety, the haze of blackness around Yvonne's heart parted just enough for her to have her breathe snatched quickly from her.

After having her first kiss so ruthlessly stolen, she was startled that having her breathe taken away was _not_ the unpleasant experience she would have expected. The _fear_ still lingered, but there was something _else_. Something tingling sweetly within the pit of her belly…something that twisted deliciously up through her chest and made her cheeks blush soft pink.

He was (as she discovered later that evening) a gentleman by the name of Lord Anthony Dewhurst; one of the handsomest, wealthiest young men in England – and he had turned his soft, dark brown eyes to hers.

His had widened in surprise, and he had opened his mouth as if startled, but no words had come. Yvonne, on the other hand, found herself staring openly at the fine structure of his form, revealed perfectly by the exquisite cut of his satin coat and breeches in a masculine shade of rich, shimmering tan. Her blood warmed and her cheeks felt hot. Such thoughts were surely improper, and yet they were foremost on her mind: he was _incredibly_ attractive.

But before she could shyly flirt her lashes and bring the young man closer, her father claimed her hand, leading her firmly away to a small gaggle of elderly businessmen and nobles, which included Martin-Roget, who took her arm in his immediately.

Disappointed at the turn of events, she caught herself trying to find the young Lord Dewhurst once more, confused by the emotions that had warred within her for that brief moment. She saw him standing near several of his English friends, and his eyes often strayed to hers.

Her father finally demanded, in a stern voice, that she should be attentive to Martin-Roget, and Yvonne reluctantly obeyed.

 

**VII. Amongst the Blakeney Roses**

The following two weeks had proved that, though the darkness still hovered about her, there was a light guiding her out of the depths of despair. She did not know wither it would take her, but she was positive it _must_ be good; it shone from Lord Dewhurst's every facet and seemly pulled her towards him. And she hadn't even spoken to the man, yet! But whenever she accompanied her father to a soiree or dinner or a ball or a garden party, and saw milord with his friends, she felt giddy and flush.

Martin-Roget had _never_ elicited such emotions within her budding young body. She tried to comprehend what was happening to her, but to no avail. All she knew was that she wanted to get to know the young Englishman, and was torn by her father's wishes that she attach herself to Martin-Roget, the wealthy French banker.

And then, one afternoon, at the exquisite Lady Blakeney's end-of-summer _jardin d'accueil_ , she found herself quite alone when His Royal Highness claimed her father in order to introduce the Duc to several other guests. Martin-Roget had not yet arrived and, truthfully, Yvonne hoped he would be delayed even longer, for she dreaded his constant hovering. Besides, without her father and her fiancee, she was free for a short while, and taking advantage of the situation she had wandered into milady's beautiful rose garden, utterly enchanted by the staggeringly beautiful colors of late summer roses.

And then she rounded a bend and came face to face with Lord Dewhurst.

The instant tinge of dark pink on his strong, high cheekbones was quite adorable and sudden, she thought. Surely he was not nervous of a mere sixteen-year-old girl!

She shyly diverted her eyes and struggled to ignore Pierre Adet's terrible memory, even as it attempted to snarl furiously (more furiously than usual, it seemed) that this man was like all of the others – vile and demanding, slobbering and foul smelling, wanting nothing more than what Adet himself had taken.

"M-Mademoiselle," Lord Dewhurst stammered, bowing politely.

Yvonne curtsied nervously and kept her lashes low against her soft cheeks. Her voice was nothing more than a trembling whisper as she murmured in response, "My lord."

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing once. There was an awkward silence, but after a few seconds, he said, "It is a fine day, is it not?"

" _Mais oui, c'est très joli_." She still whispered, partly from fear, partly from intense attraction. "Madame Blakeney is a wonderful hostess."

"She is," he agreed, almost fretfully and fidgeting slightly. "Mademoiselle, I…"

But before he could continue, Yvonne's father appeared around the bend just at that very moment and, when he saw the scene before him, looked positively enraged to find his daughter speaking to the young Englishman – alone!

Still, the Duc de Kernogan was a man of breeding. He did not, thankfully, make a dreadful scene. Lord Dewhurst had paled, but he had also nodded politely to the older man, whose own manners were perfectly cool and aloof as he took Yvonne's elbow and informed her that Monsieur Martin-Roget had just arrived and was asking for her. Then he even inclined his head briefly towards the young Englishman, in a gesture of strained etiquette.

But as her father led her away, Yvonne glanced over her shoulder and gave her admirer a small, timid smile – quite outside the boundaries of what her father would have considered appropriate.

And to her delight, he returned it quite hopefully, almost boyishly.

The pleasant feeling of giddiness settled happily within her chest, enabling her to endure Martin-Rouge's dull, boring talk for the rest of the afternoon.

 

**VIII. Delightful Secret**

It was so _exceedingly_ difficult to capture moments of brief conversation with him. Her father and Martin-Roget hovered like vultures whenever there was any sort of event, as if both knew of her straying feelings. And had it not been for dear Lady Blakeney, poor Yvonne was certain that she would have never had the chance to get to know dearest Anthony.

As it was, Lady Blakeney had seemingly taken a sudden, keen interest in Mademoiselle de Kernogan, and had begun to request her particular company ever since the fateful day Yvonne and milord had bumped into each other in the rose garden. Furthermore, Yvonne's father could not _possibly_ object to the wife of the richest man in England desiring his daughter's company, and Yvonne herself had to admit that she was becoming quite attached to the beautiful Marguerite. Not only was the woman witty and cheerful; she was always able to steal a few minutes of Lord Tony's time for Yvonne, and ensure that the Duc de Kernogan remained wholly unaware of the proceedings.

It was in this secretive fashion that Yvonne carried on a new, nicer secret than the black one that had consumed her for _so_ long. Anthony was shy and bumbled over his words, but he also had the sweetest smile and his liquid, dark brown eyes always shone with a beautiful light whenever he came near her. When their time was up, he always seemed so doleful to leave her. He would continue to watch her from across a room after their brief encounters, seeking her out at least once more to remind her that he hadn't forgotten her. She would sometimes feel his gaze settle on her, waiting for her to shower him with even one fleeting glance.

But he hardly need worry about _that_. Yvonne could scarce keep from _staring_ at him. He was so attractive, so attentive, so thoughtful and lovely, and when she went to sleep at nights she would often compare him to Martin-Roget. Her future fiancée was nothing like dear Anthony! Martin-Roget was cool and unfeeling and looked at her only with stern, frowning expressions these days, or would ignore her if she spoke at all…while Anthony clung to every syllable she uttered, as though nothing were more enchanting than her voice. Martin-Roget was more interested in his ever-important business affairs; Anthony was content to be in her presence. Martin-Roget never gazed at her so lovingly and tenderly, as if she were the only thing that mattered in his life.

Oh, how she adored Anthony! If only her father felt the same!

 

**IX. An Exquisite Ally**

Lady Blakeney was such a wonderful, understanding creature. Yvonne noticed that she had begun boasting of Anthony in the Duc's presence, as though determined to make the older aristocrat like the young Englishman. Yvonne was surprised by this at the first; but then, when the woman's idiotic, foppish dandy of a husband began to do the same thing, she wondered if there were not some plot amongst the brilliant elite of English society to play the matchmaker and whisk her into Anthony's arms, away from the coldness of Martin-Roget.

Somehow, they even managed to convince her father to let her _dance_ with Anthony at the balls and parties, though the Duc de Kernogan was always highly reluctant and extremely annoyed to grant his approval to such a caper. And if Martin-Roget happened to be present, the banker would prowl the edges of the ballroom until the orchestra ceased their music, and take Yvonne's arm the moment she left the dance floor – often snatching her away from Anthony, quite literally.

But then, always, sometime during the night, there would come a moment when lazy Sir Percy Blakeney or one of his many friends would engage Monsieur Martin-Roget and the Duc in a conversation or game of cards, and Lady Blakeney or Lady Ffoulkes would rush to rescue Yvonne and lead her to some dark, snug recess – to a waiting, eager man who showered her with adoration and love.

And she would have continued believing it to be part of a beautiful, delightful fairytale, until the dreadful evening at a ball, when Lady Blakeney finally revealed the truth.

Oh, the truth! Such a terrible and beautiful object! She now understood how something could be both wonderful and terrifying at the same time.

Before a blazing fire, on a plush, velvet settee, Marguerite had explained calmly, quietly, and urgently that _nothing_ was quite what Yvonne thought. Martin-Roget was _not_ a wealthy banker who had escaped the Revolution to London, but instead a horrid fiend. Yvonne had listened, paling visibly as her friend carefully told of what the mask _really_ hid.

She'd had to clench her hands in her lap to keep from visibly trembling, to keep from pressing her palms to her ears and screaming as the old panic and fear bubbled within her. Martin-Roget, the man who had won her father's favor, was none other than the devil who had terrorized her when she had been but a girl! The same man whose memory plagued her with nightmares and made her keep her distance from other, nicer men by insisting they were just like he was.

But she had little time to dwell on such horrors. The fact that Martin-Roget ( _no_ , Pierre Adet!) had been touching her, planning to marry her, wooing her father for so long now, was wretchedly nauseating, yet dear Marguerite did not give her time to reflect. Instead, she promptly explained in a low voice that there was indeed a solution to the hellish future of Yvonne becoming such a man's wife and enduring the torture he had planned for her out of revenge and hatred, before killing her. Marguerite vowed to help protect Yvonne, and insisted that this plan be carried out immediately for Yvonne's own safety.

The plan was thus: according to the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel, whom all of English society twittered on about, Yvonne must wed before her father could bind her to Martin-Roget. And the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel would help protect her. She must, Marguerite had whispered emphatically, marry Lord Dewhurst immediately. Anthony was, as it turned out, a member of the very League and had pledged himself to the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Yvonne's breathing had grown shallow by that time, as she tried to wrap her thoughts about so many new pieces of information, but when the lady mentioned her dear admirer, she almost felt faint. _Marry_ Anthony? But she was merely sixteen! She would be going against her father's wishes! Were she still in France, marriage outside of her father's approval would be illegal! She could even be killed for such a thing! And then there was the fact that Marguerite had told her that Anthony was a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel! He was one of those brave souls who rescued men, women, and children from the very clutches of Death! Her adoring, shy lover was so much more than she had imagined!

Marguerite had seen the fear and confusion, and she suddenly grasped Yvonne's hands tightly, bringing her back to the whirling reality.

"Do you love Tony, chéri?" she'd whispered urgently.

"Oui, mais…"

"Then there is nothing else. He loves you, as well. He will be a good husband – the best husband you could dream of! You must believe me. He will never stop cherishing you, protecting you, loving you. He's ready to help you even now, to save you from death. He will ask your consent formally, as soon as we finish our conversation, because that is what society demands, and then you must be ready to leave with Lady Ffoulkes at midnight. She and her husband will ensure you arrive safely at the church before dawn for the ceremony. Your father cannot object to you leaving with her, and once he discovers the truth, he will adjust. Slowly, perhaps. But it is better than a torturous death. Now. Go to the east boudoir. It is the most secluded. My husband and His Highness are keeping your father occupied. Lord Tony is waiting for you. You must be strong, now."

Terrified, Yvonne had nodded and risen.

 

**X. Before Dawn**

In the grayness that precedes the dawn, Yvonne stood on the steps of the church, gazing in dazed sort of way at the thin, pale line of the horizon. She pulled her velvet and satin cloak about her more securely; it was chilly and damp, and she felt exhausted and drained. Beside her, Lady Ffoulkes stood silently, watching her closely; while further up the steps, at the great oaken doors, Anthony and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Sir Percy Blakeney, with Marguerite, were all speaking in low voices.

Suzanne suddenly touched her arm, and Yvonne started and slowly turned to look at her with almost unfocused eyes.

"He loves you so dearly," her friend said softly, encouragingly. "He will never fail you. I know he will not."

She nodded to show that she had understood, and just another moment later, her new husband touched her other arm. He looked as tired as she felt, but he gave her a timid, shy smile and gestured wordlessly to a coach that was waiting on the deserted street. Yvonne nodded once more, and allowed him lead her to it.

As Anthony opened the door to help her in, Marguerite appeared beside her to wish her well. Behind her stood Sir Percy, towering over them all on the third step up to the church, like a huge monolith that seemed entirely out of place. Perhaps it was the way the dim light fell, but he did not look quite as foppish and languid and silly as he usually did, just now. Yvonne vaguely wondered why. The man was notorious for being the most idiotic dandy in all of England. Why, then, should there be a sudden difference?

She had little time to dwell on it, however. Marguerite leaned forward and kissed her cheek, whispering, "Godspeed, _chéri_. And do not worry about your father. Think only that you are safe, now."

The lady moved aside and Sir Percy then came down the remaining steps, lifted Yvonne's cold fingers to his equally chilly lips, and added in a low voice, "The Duc will move beyond the shock soon enough, I daresay."

His normally lazy blue eyes sparkled in the darkness, and Yvonne was momentarily transfixed in a fleeting state of confusion.

Perhaps she was simply overwrought. Perhaps it didn't matter. Anthony was now assisting her into the carriage anyways, and she trembled nervously as she climbed inside and settled into her seat quietly, while her husband clamored in after her. Then the door clicked shut and Sir Percy had signaled the driver before Yvonne had a chance to put the pieces of the puzzle together in correct order.

Besides, she had more important things to think of then Sir Percy's eyes. As their coach rumbled forward, she gazed shyly across the dark, plush, warm interior at her husband's solid outline, and as soon as they had rounded the first turn, he instantly moved to sit beside her. She tensed at first, but she was also so grateful to have his strong arm slide lovingly about her shoulders, so overjoyed despite her fear and worry, that she sank against his chest and close her eyes, sighed heavily, and snuggled closer.

Anthony tightened his hold on her – not crushing, but just deliciously perfect.

"Nothing can harm you now, my darling. Nothing," he whispered.

She easily believed him as his cheek rested against her hair, and they both slipped into a fitful, drowsy sleep.

 

**XI. Brocaded Patterns**

The longer she examined the brocaded drapery above her, the more she could see the stripped pattern through the darkness. The colors were indistinguishable, of course. But the pattern was there.

It was a lovely pattern. Or at least, what she had seen of it when she first entered the room upon their arrival, just as dawn was breaking. The journey from the church to wherever they had come had only been an hour or so; she had lost track of time and had been extremely weary, desiring only to sleep in a soft bed. But in the short time she had actually been able to see the fabric by the light of the candles (for the curtains were drawn tightly shut), she learned it to be a rich brocade in jewel-tones of deep wine red and shimmering, muted gold, with minute thin stripes of black and chocolaty brown between. The floral paisley design was formed by raised, velveteen ridges that made her fingertips tingle when she touched them.

Now, memorizing the pattern gave her a definite distraction from the warm body beside her, and the loose arm about her waist. Her husband had insisted they sleep in the same room, stammering over his words a bit, as he'd tried to explain that it was necessary, because there was no telling what Martin-Roget might do and Yvonne was not to be left unattended at any time, if possible.

She had demurely agreed and consented to the suggestion - he was her husband, after all. Still, he had insisted that he would do nothing further than sleep beside her, unless she gave him permission. And he had been true to his word. The only thing that had happened thus far was that they had both gratefully changed into their night things, each separately and behind a large painted screen in one corner of the room, and then Anthony had given her a chaste kiss before helping her onto the large bed. Both were far too exhausted to do anything else. Yvonne had not even particularly cared that her nightshift was quite thin - except that it allowed the heat of Anthony's body to seep through it very quickly, and in a strangely pleasant, soothing way.

She had managed to sleep a little – though fitfully. The bed had been exceedingly comfortable and Anthony was exceedingly warm, and both these things had been a great help to her nerves. When she finally awoke in the strange room, it was eleven o'clock in the morning, if she counted the chimes on the clock a room below correctly. Besides, the line of sunlight through the chink in the drapery seemed to fit the hour.

She wondered where they were at. It seemed that Anthony had told her the estate they had traveled to, but she could not remember. And she wondered what would happen in a few hours when her father realized she was _not_ with Lady Ffoulkes, but that she had eloped against his wishes.

Then suddenly, before she could panic at the thought, her dear husband stirred slightly and his arm tightened about her tiny waist. Other than that single arm, his chin against her shoulder, the length of his body against her back, and the momentary kiss he had given her before falling asleep again, he had not touched her all night. For this, she thought him all the more dear – she had been too overwhelmed the night before to have considered consummating their marriage immediately. Anthony had understood her in a way no one else ever had, and she found that she loved him with all of her heart. It was a love that positively ached within her, and Yvonne gasped in surprise at the revelation.

 

**XII. Fear Evaporates**

The thin band of gold shining through the chink in the heavy brocade curtains about the bed meant that it was nearly noon, but perhaps not quite. It was also just enough to give his perfect body a faint halo of light, illuminating the chiseled musculature of a young, athletic Englishman and a tousled head of soft, wavy, rich brown curls.

Shyness had dissolved quickly on both parts. She had been stunned at how _responsive_ she had been when he had awoken and nuzzled her neck and throat, placing a warm, lingering kiss in the hollow and breathing her name as though he were saying a prayer. That he should cherish her so much was heavenly, and she had arched to him, whimpering in need. True, he _had_ now broken his promise not to touch her, but she found that she had _wanted_ him to break it, especially in such a perfect way.

And when she arched into him, he gasped softly and pressed closer, as though desperate to be near her, to touch her, to learn everything about her without words. His trembling palm pushed her nightdress up and cupped her quivering thigh, and she cried out without thought – not from _fear_ , but from _want_. He found her mouth in a dizzying, hungry kiss, and she had startled herself yet again by actually trying to push his own nightshirt out of the way, eager as she was to touch _him_.

This was _nothing_ like the experience she'd had at the age of twelve. This was delicious and aching. The hunger she tasted on his lips wasn't frightening, it was maddening.

Moments later, with the restriction of clothing finally out of the way, she had gasped in delight and wonder at the way the sun gleamed on the curves of biceps and the ridges of a taut, flat stomach, and she had been pleased when he blushed at her blatant staring. He was truly just as shy as she was. And her own shyness and fear evaporated, as quickly as that.

She reached for him, wordlessly begging him to come to her, and he did.

 

**XIII. The Happiest Thought**

The sun's light had faded from the brilliancy of mid-morning to the normality of early afternoon, and she idly wondered what time it was.

Then she laughed at the absurdity of such a thought, because time did not matter here, surely!

"What is so amusing, my love?" Her husband whispered in her ear in her native language, his warm breath tickling her skin and making the damp tendrils of hair flutter against her neck.

She shivered with delight and turned her head quickly in order to kiss his lips, relishing that warmth and the mere taste of him, while her little hands roved over his strong shoulders and into the spill of hair at his neck.

"Tis nothing, dearest," she whispered back, once she had parted from the heat of his mouth by a breath; enough to talk and enough to go back should she crave more.

He breathed a sigh and closed his eyes, his fingers splayed against her bare stomach as his head dropped to her shoulder in reverence. "Do you love me so much?" He sounded almost frightened.

"Yes, my husband." She gave him a soft smile and stroked his hair. "So much."

And as she settled against him, her breathing much slower now, she realized that when Anthony had first touched her, had first made her arch into him with sheer need, had first shown her true love, that the fear Pierre Adet had created with her so long ago had finally been vanquished. She had thought it had gone when she had sat with him in the coach, but no. Now, it was truly gone.

She could give all of herself to her husband, without reserve, without panic, without fear...and she had.

Such a thought was almost too happy to contain, and she wrapped her arms around him to make sure he did not leave her.

And that thought was almost as absurd as the time.

 

**XIV. Courage**

It was much later that evening before she summoned the courage to tell him of her past. It was a difficult task, but it needed to be done.

They'd eaten dinner in comfortable, loving silence. She had flushed to see that his gaze often drifted to her face, her neck, the sloping swells of her breasts and where the fine silk of her gown met her skin. It was a mutual gaze, for her own eyes constantly flickered to his neck, his hair, his firm hands...desiring to feel his fingers molding to her body and tracing the dips and contours he had memorized so quickly over the course of day.

And so, it was almost with a certain amount of desperation that they finally made it to the bedchamber again, even to the point that they left their servants behind. Both wished to learn the intricacies of the opposite sex's clothing, and the only way to do so was to unclothe each other.

Yvonne had giggled girlishly and blushed at her boldness, in trying to learn of all the hidden buttons and flaps that held his breeches together, while Anthony had barely managed to conceal his silent laughter at trying to clumsily unfasten the many pearled buttons down the back of her luscious gown. It was a relief to be free of clothing at last, to be in each other's arms again.

And afterwards, lying against him and knowing nothing could ever harm her, she was finally able to whisper the truth to him.

He had listened in silence, though a myriad of emotions had shown plainly on his chiseled face. She saw anger and fury, barely controlled, but when a couple of tears slipped down her cheeks at the thought that perhaps he was upset with _her_ , he quickly brushed them away in alarm and eased her fears. He could never be angry with _her_ , he insisted emphatically. No – it was Adet he despised, hated... _loathed_...with all of his being. It was the plot against her, that odious plot to kill his beautiful wife, which infuriated his senses. He vowed repeatedly to protect her and love her, and by the time the conversation finally reached an end, Yvonne was so exhausted with the effort of explaining that she merely collapsed against him and fell asleep.

She awoke once, in the middle of the night, to discover he was still awake. He was stroking her hair, his fingers tangled loosely in the tumbling, silken curls. When she looked up at him with wide eyes, drinking in the beautiful sight of his naked form only half-covered by scented sheets and glowing in the light of a lone, guttering candle on the bedside table, he smiled gently and whispered for her to go back to sleep, for he would never leave her.

 

**XV. Irony**

It was amusing, she thought.

In a dark, evil way.

Because it wasn't _really_ amusing.

Her father had been so infuriated by her elopement with Anthony; by her going against the wishes of the only parent she had left to her.

And yet, for her father to then discover that he had been mistaken all along… That he was nothing more than an old _fool_ …

Had she not loved him despite that, she would have smiled at the irony of such a _twisted_ situation.

For there certainly was nothing else to smile about.

 

**XVI. Remembrance**

Adet's sister loathed her and made it well known; the woman barely fed her and only came up to her prison to leer and taunt, throw insults at a miserable aristo who would soon find her head detached from her body.

Yvonne had lost count of the hours spent in this miserable attic, praying to God to send her Anthony to rescue her. But if she never saw milord again, at least she had the memories – the perfect, blissful memories of those three days with him at one of Sir Percy Blakeney's northern estates. The feel of Anthony's skin against hers, the feel of his lips roving hungrily on her breasts and throat with sheer need for her, the feel of him making love to her. So unlike Pierre Adet's attack four years prior. So unlike anything she had ever dreamed of. So _real_. If Life was to be cruel and horrible…then at least she had those heavenly memories of her Anthony. And if God was good, then perhaps it he would deliver her back to her husband.

Anything, she thought sorrowfully, would be better than a tiny attic without windowpanes, for the icy wind was bitter and cut her delicate skin. Anything better than bandying words with Adet, arguing fruitlessly over his ridiculous proposal that she marry him to save her own life. Of course she would rather die than marry Adet!

Besides, she was already a married woman. She was _Lady Dewhurst_. She would never be _anything else_.

 

**XVII. The Agony of Waiting**

He had paced the parlor of the Fisherman's Rest like a ruined wretch, waiting for the tide to change – until his chief ordered him to _sit down, for God's sake, and drink a mug of Jellyband's best to calm yourself, man._

He had stormed the decks of the _Daydream_ like a madman, while waiting for the noble vessel to arrive in France – until his chief ordered him to _get below deck, dem it all, and stop torturing my poor sailors, before they lash you to the wheel!_

He had prowled the wretched hovel they were using as a base of operations like a wounded animal, while waiting for the others to finish scouting the situation – until his chief ordered him to _lie down and get some sleep, before I knock you out cold…which is a highly tempting prospect, Tony, after the way you've been behaving the past four-and-twenty hours._

It was only when he was in that narrow, filthy alleyway, waiting for the final brawl to erupt within the horrible tavern his wife was currently imprisoned in, that the agony of _waiting_ caught up with him, and he found he could no longer pace or storm or prowl.

Instead, he could now only stand perfectly still, white as a ghost, his lips trembling from cold and his fingers numb with dread, and continue to _wait_.

Wait for his chief to save the day – _as I always do, you scurvy rascal!_

 

**XVIII. Carry That Weight**

Yvonne was such a tiny, willowy thing.

He could lift her, easily, with both hands 'round her waist, his fingers barely touching at the small of her back. He knew, because he had lifted her several times during their three blissful, heavenly days together, if only to pick her up and hold her against him and feel her heart beating beneath her beautiful breast.

On the other hand, her father was nearly five times Yvonne's size, and all the heavier for being dead.

He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and shifted slightly, grunting from the weight upon his strong, young shoulders. He resolved, silently, to never allow himself to go to seed as this foolish man had done – although, if Percy had any say-so about the matter, none of them would. Once the Revolution was over, their fearless leader would undoubtedly find some new sport that would keep all twenty of them fit and active well into their advancing years.

And, in one way, he blamed Percy. Oh, _yes_. Percy, who had sent _him_ on _this_ errand, as though the Scarlet Pimpernel had known from the very beginning, even before Tony had married Yvonne, that _this_ was how things would end. That de Kernogan would die and _Tony_ would carry him to his grave, to those who would ensure a proper burial, without further humiliations to a man who deserved to be humiliated for all the idiotic, foolish, nearly-fatal mistakes he had made.

And while Tony struggled with _this_ task, Percy took it to hand to rescue Yvonne from the clutches of evil.

It just didn't seem fair, somehow.

But, he was aware that it was because Percy knew his feelings. Percy _knew_ Tony inwardly blamed de Kernogan for all that had happened, though Tony had been careful not to voice such opinions aloud, not wishing to earn censure from his beloved chief or his fellow comrades. And, as a result, the hateful bitterness had simmered and frothed inside of him, eating away at him mercilessly.

The sweat in his eyes mingled with a few salty tears at the indignation of the whole thing. The seventeen stones upon his back had nearly ruined every chance he'd had at happiness, every desperate desire he'd felt when he had looked into Yvonne's soulful eyes or at her graceful figure. The Duc had disliked Lord Anthony Dewhurst from the very start, and had likely died hating him – though only heaven knew why. It wasn't as though he were a bad marriage prospect! After all, he held the title of 'lord', owned two country estates and a townhouse, had four British bank accounts and one hidden neatly away in Switzerland that only Percy knew of, and also managed quite a few investments and much property – both undeveloped land and tentant housing.

And yet, it was _because_ of his feelings towards de Kernogan, and de Kernogan's feelings towards him, that Tony had to be the one to drag him to the cemetery.

It was no use wondering why on earth Percy hadn't sent Ffoulkes or Hastings or Stowmarries or _anyone-bloody-else_ to do this job. He had _planned_ it so Tony would do it.

And by the time the low stone walls that surrounded the graveyard came into view, he found that there were now more tears than sweat in his eyes, and he nearly collapsed from the weight of emotions within him, rather than the weight of inert matter upon his back.

If he were to continue loving Yvonne, and continue his life with her as her husband, he would have to forgive the dead man he was carrying to his grave.

Lord Anthony Dewhurst was an honorable man, unlike the Duc de Kernogan. Percy _knew_ it, and had planned things this way for a purpose.

For _this_ purpose.

Damn Percy, sometimes, he thought bitterly. The man was saint and devil all in one, God love him.

 

**XVIIII. The Mysterious Puzzle Piece**

She stood amongst the dilapidated ruins of a run-down hovel, staring through the dim darkness at the monolithic man before her, while terrified even more by the loud shouts and howls of the angry, passing crowd beyond the thin, trembling walls.

Only a few days prior, she had stood at the steps of a great cathedral on her wedding morn, staring up at the same man. She had been confused by the strange, unexplainable difference she had seen in his eyes that early morning, but she had been unable to determine what it meant. Sir Percy Blakeney, Baronet was renowned throughout elite society as an idiot – a foppish dandy who was only interested in the latest cut of coat or the finest lace, the correct way to tie a cravat or making up silly rhymes about the infamous Scarlet Pimpernel to amuse the insipid ladies at parties.

And, struck by that thought, she whispered, " _Mais... à cette époque-là..._ you make those little rhymes up yourself? To keep others from suspecting the truth?"

He chuckled, as though he could read her mind through the darkness. "I fear that now is not the time for questions, my lady! But rather, now is the time for you to listen carefully, and later, when you are safe, I will be completely at your disposal for whatever questions you wish to put forth." He then gestured genially towards a lumpy pile of rags in the corner, and went on, "You will find suitable clothing for our venture there, which you must don for the remainder of our journey. They are not clothes you are accustomed to, mademoiselle, but time is of the essence, as is our appearance. I will return directly; and I humbly ask you to change into your new attire as quickly as possible, while I have stepped from this room."

He made an elaborate bow, and Yvonne nodded before hesitatingly turning to pick up a couple of dirty garments in her hands.

When she looked over her shoulder, he had vanished.

For the briefest second, she panicked. Then, she forced herself to remain calm. There was no sense losing her wits. He had merely retreated to give her privacy. He was her husband's dearest friend, and she would willingly comply with his request that she swap her once-fine gown (which was now filthy and ruined from the dirty attic prison she had resided in for the past few days) for these clothes. She found that she did not need a lady's maid to unbutton her tattered dress, for she had helped Anthony unbutton it several times during their brief epoch together. And she had grown so thin from lack of nourishment that her stays practically slid off of her delicate body without her untying them. She even removed her thin shift, suddenly wanting no more of any of these clothes, for they represented a time in her life that she wished had never happened.

Then, shivering naked in the darkness, she scrambled to pull on a pair of ripped and stained breaches and a bulky, scratchy linen top. A pair of holey stockings and rough wooden sabots followed, and she quickly tried to bind her now-tangled hair with a strip of cloth she ferreted from amongst the dirty pile.

It was then that she heard the faint step of a man's foot behind her, and turning abruptly, Yvonne barely managed to clap her hand to her mouth before she uttered a scream.

For a few, tense seconds, she could only stare in horror at the awful figure before her – a grimy, disgusting object with a terrible leer – until he cracked a grin and said, "Lud love you, Lady Dewhurst. 'Tis only I!"

Gasping for breath, she released her hand from her mouth. " _S'il vous plaît pardonner moi, monsieur_!" she said faintly. "But you gave me such a fright!"

He laughed softly, and when he did, she suddenly found it ridiculously amusing herself. Now she pressed her hand to her mouth to keep the laughter silent. Fortunately, Sir Percy came forward at that moment, helped arrange a cap on her head to hide the unruly curls, and said cheerfully, "Unless I am much mistaken, the crowd has hence passed. It is time for us to join them. Your instructions are thus: You must stay with me at all times, and pretend that you are one of this wretched crowd. We will procure transportation from this place, and my men will meet us along the road as we make our escape." More gently, he added, "Do not fear, mon sage dame. You have been immeasurably brave thus far; as brave as any man in my League, and as brave as my own cherished wife. Will you continue your bravery, even as we escape this hell?"

"But of course, milord. I will do whatever you ask of me, if it means that I shall see my dear husband again."

Sir Percy's mouth curved mischievously. "Odd's fish, but he did say those very words to me himself! I do believe he might be worthy of you, m'dear."

 

**XX. Beneath the Cover of Darkness**

She could not have possibly expressed her feelings the moment her husband ducked beneath the cover of the barouche Sir Percy was skillfully driving, and pulled her into a crushing embrace.

He demanded to know what had been happening during the past hour and if she were all right, and during that brief instance when Yvonne began telling him her amazing story, she suddenly discovered that she was chattering on like a schoolgirl, instead of the woman she should have been.

That was, until he pressed his mouth to hers in a deep, intense kiss.

And when his mouth captured hers, she was suddenly overcome by only one thought: to get as near to her husband as possible. It was surprising, because only two hours ago, she had felt immeasurably weary and desired nothing more than a soft bed and all the time in the world to sleep, and to forget. But now, she was wide-awake and eager.

They had shared many kisses during their three days together, but none quite like this one. In this one, she could taste the worry he had endured as well as the relief that was crashing upon him even now, and behind those things, hunger and desire. She felt all of them too, and she pulled herself into in his lap and cupped the back of his head to kiss him more deeply. It mattered not that his hair was laced with sweat and grime, or that hers was likely the same. It did not bother her that he wore tattered rags and that his shirt was half torn apart, for she was dressed in dirty scraps herself – like a boy, even!

And within seconds, they were grappling with each other, desperate to touch and taste. His hands slid beneath the coarse shirt she wore, skimming up her ribs to brush her breasts. He gasped in surprise when he realized she had discarded her corset, and she wished to God that they were not in a coach, or that his friends were just on the outside of it. She wanted to be in their bedchambers, back in England, feeling him inside of her, thrusting against her damp hips and whispering in her ear, purring for her to shatter around him before he poured himself into her. And with these thoughts, she whimpered and ground herself against him unconsciously, and felt his breath hiss in between his teeth. Heaven help them; he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

But then, quite suddenly, the saltiness of tears touched her tongue, and she drew back in surprise.

For fear that someone other than Percy might overhear, she whispered, " _Mon âme_?"

His fingers trembled as they caressed her face, almost roughly from emotion. "I thought I had lost you," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "I swear to God, I thought I had lost you!"

Immediately, she pressed her body against his, curling up into his strong chest while her fingertips traveled firmly down his sternum, feeling the muscles quiver deliciously.

"How long before we are in England again?" she whispered.

"It will be several days, I'm afraid." His arms twisted around her almost painfully; she could feel his body quake against hers. "We could not dock on this side of France, due to the shape of the bays and coastlines. The French are on the lookout for any English schooners – _especially_ Percy's. We must travel to Caen, and thence to the other side of Le Havre, where his sailors will be on the lookout for us."

"So far." Her throat felt dry. It would be days before she could make love to Anthony.

"Not to worry, my love. Once we are on board the _Daydream_ , all will be well again."

But even in the darkness, she could see the sadness in his eyes, as though he did not believe his own words. And, not wanting to see her husband looking so distressed, she pressed her mouth to his in a fierce kiss, determined to make him forget what he had lived through. He whimpered again, and she leaned forward and whispered in his ear, barely audible but with a trace of need in her voice, "When we are on board the _Daydream_ , will... Will you make love to me?"

Perhaps it was a brazen, bold request of a woman – even a wife. But the past few days had taught Yvonne that boundaries were meaningless, intangible devices mostly created by men, and she longed for the safety of her husband's arms.

Besides, he did not seem to find it so shocking, for he kissed her again in such desperation, that she thought he might suggest they not wait until they reached the _Daydream_.

The grinding halt of the barouche suddenly jolted them apart, and Yvonne realized with some embarrassment that only a thin cover separated them from the night and Anthony's comrades. If they weren't careful, they would be caught by his friends, or worse, their enemies. She held her breath, wondering if there were a problem, or if they were simply meeting additional members of the League.

Fortunately, after a couple of seconds' silence, an anxious voice said softly, " _Percy_!" Then, "Tony, are you in there?"

Percy drawled, "Of course he is, Andrew. Odd's fish, man! Are you implying that I would _fail_?"

" _No_! Of course not!"

"Sounded very much indeed as though you were. Insubordination, eh what?"

Another man chuckled, but Sir Andrew Ffloukes was clearly relieved and said emphatically, "As long as Lady Dewhurst is safe –!"

Before Yvonne realized what was happening, her husband leaned out from beneath the cover and said, with irritation, "Honestly, Ffoulkes! Percy hasn't failed; he never does! Now, get on! We haven't got all night, you know!"

The barouche suddenly creaked and groaned as the two additional men climbed aboard, and Percy added, "Lud! No one asked you, Tony. Don't you have other things to do, than tell me and your comrades what _we_ should be doing?"

"Dear God in heaven, don't give him ideas," the second man said cheerfully – and Yvonne finally recognized his voice as that of Lord Hastings.

"Is that any way to talk? My wife _is_ present, you know!" Anthony snapped back, still leaning out of the barouche.

"And after all she's seen and been through the past week, do you think a few rogue members of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel are going to frighten her with a coarse jest?" Hastings mused.

"Enough," Sir Percy said. His voice was quite calm, commanding, and resolved, and instantly, all three of his men fell silent. "To Caen, then? Glynde and Mackenzie have instructions to find a suitable, deserted place for us to rest halfway there, and will meet us on the main road in twelve hours."

Yvonne closed her eyes and buried her face in Anthony's shoulder, thankful when his arms found their way around her small body again. Not that she minded the jesting and teasing, because it seemed familiar and soothing. But it was going to be a long night and morning, and she would need to rest.

 

**XXI. Interlude**

Steam lightly rose off of the water in the wooden washtub – tight, spiraling tendrils that wisped away into nothing and vanished.

Yet Yvonne gazed through them without seeing them, her arm crossed slightly over her chest and her hand holding a sponge against her shoulder. So deep was she in thought, that she had forgotten to follow through with the repetitions of washing away the dirt and grim from her pale skin.

The truth was, there were no maidservants on the _Daydream_ to assist her, and after all that had happened the past couple of weeks, Yvonne found that this task – this singular task which should have been so tremendously simple when compared to escaping Adet and Chauvelin – was just the opposite. She felt sluggish and lost, and she wished she could have someone do it for her. Someone who could gently rub the soft sea sponge over her delicate, porcelain skin, massaging and easing away the tension that had built in her muscles, so that all she would have to do would be to lean back and relax and...

Think.

Yes, that was the exact trouble. There were too many thoughts whisking through her mind, racing 'round and 'round, to allow her to do two things at once. In fleeing France with Sir Percy, his League, and her husband, there had been no time to _think_. Until now. Until this one moment in which she was alone, in a small yet comfortable cabin upon milord's yacht, trying to wash herself.

She was bitterly reminded of Adet's words so many years ago – that she could never wash him away. Was he still right? Was he still haunting her?

And worse, there was the nagging sadness in the back of her mind, hovering at the edges of her vision and threatening to overcome Adet's memory: the fact that her father was dead.

She blinked back the tears against her lashes, swallowed a small sob, and clenched her arms more tightly over her chest.

Her father was dead. Adet had managed to exact his revenge, even partially. She was still alive, but her father was dead. Her father was dead.

There was suddenly a soft knock upon the door of her cabin, and Yvonne gasped. The sound brought her back to reality, out of the awful truth that was threatening to overwhelm her. She quickly composed herself and called out in a trembling voice, " _Qui est-ce que c'est , s'il vous plaît?_ "

" _Votre époux, madame._ "

She closed her eyes and heaved a sigh, relief flooding her at the wonderful response in her native language. _Her husband_.

Composing herself again, she bade him to enter.

He came into the cabin quickly and turned to bolt the door behind him, to ensure they would not be interrupted. To her further surprise, he carried fresh, warm towels – obviously heated somewhere upon this lovely ship – and wore simple breeches and a billowing, linen shirt. It was strange attire on him, but she rather liked it when she thought of the brilliant satin ensembles he had worn throughout their courtship at so many parties and balls and dinners. This was real, simple, less confusing. It required less thought, and she was quite tired of thinking. So tired of thinking that she did not even care that she was nude before him, when she was vulnerable in so many other ways as well.

He paused and looked at her – not a lustful, hungry look – but one of intense worry and sadness. She immediately diverted her eyes, unable to see him with such an expression. But before she knew it, he had gently placed the towels upon the floor, and knelt beside her to take the sponge from her inert fingers and begin her task himself.

Yvonne could not help it; the gesture was so unlike anything she had expected from an Englishman that she simply burst into tears, and the moment she did, Tony's arms encircled her tightly, his shirt becoming soaked from the water upon her skin. His lips were beside her ear, whispering over and over in French that he was right beside her, even though he had failed her and she had every reason to think ill of him, to hate him for what he had allowed to happen.

Between sobs, she realized what he was saying. That he blamed himself, when he was not to blame at all. She tried to insist, desperately, that she did not think ill of him, that he had failed at nothing, and that neither of them had been expected to suspect her own father.

Her father.

The thought of her father sent her into tears again, and it seemed a long time later when she finally managed to regain control of herself and remember her surroundings. With her fingers clenched in his wet shirt, she lifted her head and whispered, in an almost too-calm voice, "My father is dead, Anthony."

There were tears in his own eyes. "Yes," he whispered back. "I know, darling."

They released each other together as if by a mutual understanding and, as if trying to find something to keep him busy, he lifted a large jug of water from the floor to rinse her hair.

As he poured the warmth gently over her head, he said quietly, "Do you remember Jean-Marie, dearest?"

Wiping her eyes, she found herself startled by the memory. "Yes. He was my coachman when I was a girl."

"He was the one who took your father's body from me, and he promised me that he will ensure your father is buried in hallowed ground with proper rites. He asked that I tell you... so that you will not worry for your father's soul. And he sends his wishes for your eternal happiness."

"I will always be happy if I have you, Anthony" she said shyly. "Even if I am struggling now. I will be well soon enough." And, with a soft sigh, she started to wring her dripping hair. "I will rest easier though, knowing dear Jean-Marie has taken father's eternity into his hands."

"And now, you should have a long sleep," he said gently, helping her rise from the washtub, and then wrapping her in the soft towels. "For your father has been tended to, and there is nothing more we can do for him. God will take his soul." He gazed into her eyes and added, "We may stay aboard the _Daydream_ as long as we wish, my love. Once we lay anchor in England, Percy advised that he would see to having proper attire fetched for you, but only when you desire it."

She nodded, like a child, and allowed Anthony to dry her – standing still and quiet, as she had when she had been a child, and allowed her maids to do everything for her.

He reached into the pile of warm towels and tugged out a clean shirt, which he pulled over her head – one of his billowing linen shirts, for she recognized the familiar, comforting scent. Then he helped her towel her hair beside the small lamp, until it was nearly dry, and went to tuck her neatly into the cot as she twisted her legs and climbed beneath the think blankets.

But Yvonne stopped him before he could go, grasping his wet sleeve in her fingers and meeting his eyes imploringly.

"Will you please stay with me? Please?"

He paused, but it was only a fraction of a second. Then he immediately stripped out of his shirt and breeches and crawled into the cot with her, as though he had been desperately hoping she would allow him to sleep with her. Yvonne felt as though it were necessary, for by allowing him to remain, it was almost a tangible representation of her "forgiveness", if he felt he needed such, which he didn't, for she still loved him as dearly as she had the day she had married him. His body was burning and she curled into him happily, her exhaustion carrying her to sleep, as Anthony held her close.

 

**XXII. Morning**

She had been dreaming when a noisy maneuver on deck awoke her; with a soft gasp, she jerked awake. It took a moment to remember that she was on board Sir Percy Blakeney's yacht, and perfectly safe. That she wasn't still in France, a prisoner of Adet.

She groaned softly in relief, and almost as soon as she did, she heard her husband groan as well. His left arm was over his eyes, his mouth set in a grimace. He lifted the arm for a second or so in order to glare at the ceiling, before he muttered, "Damn Percy, sometimes! If I didn't know better, I'd say he did that on purpose!"

Yvonne giggled softly, and his expression melted into a smile.

"I should go find a seamstress," he murmured, running his other hand down her back. "So that you may be properly attired to leave the _Daydream_."

Tracing a line down the center of his chest with her finger, she whispered, "In an hour or so, perhaps."

She felt him shudder deliciously, before he twisted on top of her to kiss her.

Easing her tongue between his lips, groaning at the feel of him, tracing the broad planes of his body with her small hands, Yvonne allowed herself to forget the previous two weeks and arch towards her husband.

 

**XXIII. Satin and Ermine**

Grasping the doorframe for support, Yvonne felt the familiar pressure around her ribs as the ruddy-faced seamstress tightened her new corset laces.

It was a pretty corset, of pale cream-colored silk, fashioned about a whale-bone frame.

It was as pretty as the beautiful gown that followed – a dark green gown of smooth satin, with black trim. Gifts from Sir Percy and her husband, carefully created on short notice to their specifications. They were both so good to her, and she had no idea how to thank them for their kindness.

But it was afterwards, as she was gazing at herself in the small square mirror upon the wall while a young maid tied her hair back with a black velvet ribbon, that she received the most wonderful gift of all.

There was a gentle knock upon her door, and when it opened, Marguerite Blakeney was there, smiling brilliantly at her. Before the younger could speak, she breathed a sigh of relief, hurried forward, and hugged her friend tightly. Yvonne returned the affectionate gesture with a cry of happiness, and Marguerite beamed at her before turning to face the young servant boy who was standing nervously on the threshold.

"You may place it here," she directed cheerfully, indicating a chair bolted to the floor. "Thank you."

He did as he was told, then bowed and quickly departed. The little maid left the room as well, and once alone with Marguerite, Yvonne merely stared at the richly wrapped box. Then, after a couple of seconds, she slowly moved forward and opened it. But she wasn't quite prepared for what was inside, and she gasped when her fingers parted the wrappings to touch a beautiful, soft, floor-length fur cape.

"I am so thankful that you are safe, _chéri_ ," Marguerite confessed, her blue eyes revealing the worry she must have endured over the past few days. "I knew that Tony and Percy would see that you had new clothes in order to leave the _Daydream_ , but this gift is from me alone. I do hope you like it. 'Tis dreadfully chilly out, and it would be terrible to catch cold after such a dreadful ordeal!"

And suddenly, Yvonne realized that she was Lady Dewhurst again. And furthermore, she _felt_ like it. She was no longer a Kernogan, and in a way, this knowledge was an immense relief.

To Lady Blakeney's astonishment, she burst into thankful tears.

 

**XXIV. Completion**

Sighing softly, Yvonne rose from the plush wingback chair beside the fireplace, dropping the book she had been reading upon the cushion and placing a hand against the small of her back with a soft groan.

At this miniscule sound, her husband's head snapped up from where it had been bent over a letter he had been writing at the secretariat.

She gave him a small smile. "I am only stiff. My back begins to ache a bit if I sit too long."

The worry lines upon his young face did not relax. "Are you certain?"

"Yes, dearest."

"Perhaps a turn about the gardens would be beneficial?" he asked anxiously, rising to put one hand hesitatingly upon her stomach. "It is still warm out, this evening."

"I think I should like that," she murmured, a bit shyly, as she diverted her eyes to his trembling hand. There were still times that Anthony did not act like most Englishmen she knew. She could only suspect that he had picked up some of Percy Blakeney's private habits, which were endearing and sweet, rather than unemotional and stoic.

"I'll get your wraps," he suggested, smiling in relief.

But he had not gotten to the door of the parlor before the butler entered and bowed politely.

"Sir Percy Blakeney, Baronet, and Lady Marguerite Blakeney, sir," he said in a monotone voice. "Come to call upon you. Shall I admit them, sir?"

Anthony looked shocked that the butler would even _consider_ sending the wealthiest man in England away, and forcefully insisted, "Yes, of course!" He glanced at his wife for support and she smiled at him encouragingly, for she always loved to visit with the Blakeneys. And it would be quite rude to turn such dear friends away, no matter what the hour.

The butler bowed again and, a few moments later, ushered Sir Percy and Marguerite into the parlor.

They were dressed gorgeously, far more so than for a normal social call. Blakeney wore a dark blue satin suit embroidered with gold, and Marguerite was in billowing, decadent gold silk gown with pale blue accents. They matched so well that they must have had their outfits made for the purpose.

Anthony looked utterly stunned, and immediately admonished, "Good God, man, what on earth you are doing here, dressed like that?"

Blakeney laughed his inane, silly laugh - the one that Yvonne knew was only a part of his mask - and said lightly, "What, this? Well I'm afraid that Margot decided at the last moment, as we were rounding the final curve into town, that she didn't wish to make an appearance at the Viscount's elaborate dinner party after all, regardless of how rude it would be to back out at such short notice. I intend to write the man tomorrow and inform him that she had a dreadful headache, and we simply couldn't come on that account. But I'm afraid we're both dressed for a ball for absolutely no reason, now! And just as I was turning the horses about to return to Richmond, she insisted on checking upon Lady Dewhurst, so perhaps it's all right after all, eh?"

Yvonne giggled at his ridiculous jesting and hurried forward to embrace her friend. Marguerite glowed with happiness and touched her stomach with her fingertips.

"I see you look tired, _chéri_ ," she scolded playfully. "You are not to exert yourself, you know! I won't have it. You must take care of yourself!"

"I am tired of sitting," Yvonne insisted. "Really, I am. And you should go to the dinner! Everyone will talk if you do not!"

"Bah," Marguerite shrugged one shoulder. "It does not matter as much as it once did, for some reason. And I had much rather visit with you."

Sir Percy stepped forward as well, and gently kissed Yvonne's fingertips. "It has been almost a year, hasn't it?" he said thoughtfully, the mask dropping completely.

Startled at this revelation, Yvonne said, "Yes, sir. It has been almost a year. I had not thought on it, but you are quite right."

"A year," Marguerite sighed softly. "And look at you!" She gestured dramatically. "You are positively radiant!"

Percy grinned mischievously. "A year ago, you were in despair that you should never see your rascal of a husband again. And now, seeing you thus, it might have been better had you not!"

"Percy!" Marguerite turned to glare at him. "I cannot believe you!"

"No more a rascal than you, Blakeney!" Anthony laughed good-naturedly.

Yvonne found that she was giggling, too. "No. You are right, milord," she said to Percy, smiling softly. "I did not expect to live but for a few more days a year ago. And now... I have almost forgotten those two weeks, sir. I have everything to live for, now. I believe I am stronger for it, too."

"I am sorry to remind you of those dreadful days, then. I hope you will forgive your humble servant?"

"There is nothing to forgive! I am astonished at how I have grown since then," she admitted. "Anthony and I were just about to take a turn through the gardens. Will you both join us?"

Marguerite and Percy smiled at each other, before Percy said, "We would greatly enjoy it, little one."

And he offered her his arm, while Anthony politely did the same for Marguerite.

****

**~FIN~**


End file.
